


A Little Healthy Competition

by storybookpen (lears_daughter)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, unethical psychiatrists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:04:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lears_daughter/pseuds/storybookpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alana and Hannibal are longtime lovers who like to play games with people's lives.  Alana's most recent choice of target: Will Graham.  Or, Alana and Hannibal spend a lot of time chuckling evilly while the events of <i>Hannibal</i> unfold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kink meme.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Hannibal.
> 
> Note: In theory there will be a chapter for each episode, in addition to the opening chapter. Updates will be sporadic.

Alana lay on her stomach, eyes closed in bliss and the slightest smile tugging at her lips as Hannibal’s hands worked at the muscles in her back. She moaned as he found a particularly tense knot and began to unravel it, his strong fingers forcing her muscles to yield. He was using his favorite oil, one that smelled of sandalwood and vanilla and something much darker, and his skin slid against hers with a slick ease that reminded her of another intensely pleasurable activity.  
  
“I think it’s time,” she said, her voice low and contented, almost a purr.  
  
His hands paused for only a moment before resuming their task. “I thought perhaps you’d grown bored with the game."  
  
She chuckled, adjusting her face against the pillow. “Bored with easy targets,” she clarified without opening her eyes. “Never bored with the game.”  
  
Wet warmth on her skin as he licked a wide swath across her shoulder blade before his teeth latched onto her shoulder, clamping down just hard enough to leave an imprint without drawing blood. He waited out her shudder of pleasure, then his lips made their slow, sensual way across her shoulder, up her neck—making her squirm when he hit a ticklish spot—and to her ear. “You have someone in mind.” His breath puffed against her ear when he spoke. It wasn’t a question.  
  
“Jack Crawford’s asked me to profile a new serial killer,” Alana said.  
  
She could feel Hannibal’s smile. “Someone interesting?”  
  
She shrugged. “Someone with a passing resemblance to the Chesapeake Ripper. He’s eating his victims, though Jack and his team haven’t figured that out yet.”  
  
Hannibal settled across her, a heavy warmth like a dangerous blanket, his hard cock nudging against her, supporting his weight on his arms on either side of her body to keep from crushing her. “What are you thinking, my dear?”  
  
“Will Graham,” she said, turning her head just enough to brush a kiss across Hannibal’s full lips. “I think it’s finally time for you to meet him.”  
  
His breath hitched, a sign of emotion he would only ever reveal in front of her—his equal. “Alana,” he said, allowing each syllable to roll off his tongue, “my birthday is not for three months.”  
  
She bared her teeth in a grin and pushed herself up to her hands and knees, Hannibal moving with her as if her mind were somehow connected to his body. His hands settled on her hips, their grip light, and then they tightened and he entered her without preamble, a smooth thrust all the way to the hilt.  
  
Alana gasped, arching her back like a cat at the perfect sensation, her inner muscles clamping down around his solid flesh. She'd been wet for the past hour, ever since he'd suggested the massage. “I’ll tell Crawford tomorrow,” she said, her voice strained as he rotated his hips against her.  
  
Hannibal nipped at her ear. “Poor Jack will be so disappointed. This is only the second time you’ve failed to draw him a perfect profile.”  
  
Then there was no more need for words as one of his hands found her breast and his hips set a punishing rhythm matched only her own ferocious return thrusts, perfectly in sync with his.  
  
Alana would survive Jack’s disappointment, she thought with a smirk. After all, last time he'd sent her after the Chesapeake Ripper and she'd found her soulmate. This time, she suspected she and Hannibal would come out of it with Will Graham’s still bleeding heart clutched in their hands.


	2. Apéritif

It took almost twenty-four hours to finish the first round of debriefings and hospital visits after the execution of Garrett Jacob Hobbs and the near-death of his daughter Abigail, who had sounded so sweet and innocent on the phone and whose soul was already well-blackened from her father’s influence.

By the time Hannibal got home it was well past nightfall of the following day. The light in the living room was on—Alana had waited up for him, as she only ever did when the game was in play. He couldn’t fault her for wanting to hear his account—the events at the Hobbs house had been almost too sublime, from the first sight of the wife, dying in terror, to the perfect image of Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ blood splattered across Will Graham’s horrified face. Hannibal's mouth watered to remember the scent, the feeling of Abigail Hobbs’ life blood pumping beneath his hands. It would have been so easy to let up the pressure for just an instant, but that would have taken a rather fascinating piece out of play far too early in the game.

He had felt a keen hunger ever since his hands had touched Abigail Hobbs’ throat. That hunger sharpened when he walked into his home and smelled her. Alana. His match, and his mate in the most primal of ways.

Jack Crawford understood Will Graham but did not know how to use him without damaging him. Dear Uncle Jack had never understood Alana Bloom, though. He saw her pretty face, her professional air, her breasts, and thought her insignificant. He could not see the predator lurking beneath her pale skin. Hannibal, on the other hand, saw everything—and, more unusually, allowed her to see everything in return.

She was reading on the couch, one leg bent. Homer's _Illiad_ —she’d been teaching herself Ancient Greek. She didn’t look up as he came in, though he knew she knew he was there. She allowed him halfway across the room before she carefully placed a bookmark between the book’s pages and set it on a side table, then stretched languidly, her shirt riding up to expose her lovely midriff.

When she looked at him, her eyes were glowing. “Tell me,” she breathed.

He neatly removed his jacket and draped it across an armchair. He told her. He described, in exquisite detail, everything from the moment he’d met Will Graham’s eyes and seen what she herself had seen there years ago to the moment when he had called the Hobbs household and warned a madman that the police were coming. As he unbuttoned her shirt, he told her about the girl he had killed, his present to Will. As he unzipped her trousers and drew them down her shapely legs, he told her about the look on Will’s face as he'd sunk to the Hobbs’ kitchen floor.

He looked up her bare body, meeting her eyes, and said, “My campaign has begun. Tell me, Alana, what do you have planned?”

Then that hunger consumed him and he buried his face between her thighs, lapping at her folds with his tongue and drinking down her taste as if it were the finest wine.

With Alana, his senses, already extraordinary, were always heightened to an almost superhuman degree. It wasn’t just her taste, surrounding his tongue as he buried it inside her. The feel of her—her slick folds surrounding his tongue, her dry, warm thighs under his hands—was exaggerated, making him feel as if he were already inside her with another piece of his anatomy. Her smell—exquisite, now that she’d conceded and allowed him to choose her perfume, one that was so faint as to be almost nonexistent. The sight of her—her skin flushing beneath his eyes, her wiry brown pubic hair, her eyes intent as she watched him work. And the sounds she made, the soft, almost-suppressed gasps, the barely-there moans, set his own arousal on fire.

She was close, her pulse hammering through her femoral artery. He slid two fingers inside her, sucking viciously at her clit. She cried out, her thighs clamping around his head and a surge of new flavor dousing his tongue.

She collapsed back against the couch, boneless and laughing as she caught her breath. Sated for the moment, Hannibal sat back on his heels and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, daintily dabbing at his mouth.

“Your plan?” he prompted, as if their conversation had never been interrupted.

Alana extended her hand. Hannibal took it, allowing her to draw him up onto the couch beside her. Then she was sliding off the couch to kneel between his spread legs. She drew down his zipper and pulled out his hard, leaking cock.

“Let me worry about my plan,” she told him, smiling secretively, right before she leaned in and swallowed him whole.


End file.
